


Thunder Smoke

by ioanaisbored



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: 20th Century, Crushes, Dark Academia, Fights, Fluff, Happy Ending, Kissing, Lee Jeno is Whipped, M/M, Painter Huang Ren Jun, Soft Huang Ren Jun, Unresolved Romantic Tension, lee jeno as a writer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:34:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28246239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ioanaisbored/pseuds/ioanaisbored
Summary: This isn’t – he doesn’t like being here. He’s helpless, he’s stuck, it would’ve been better if he were back at home, in his study, writing on his novel, but – ah, he hates this!But it wouldn’t have made a difference, whether he was at home in his study, or here at the dinner party, because his mind would’ve been in the same place either way. Stuck on the same thing. Feeling the same type of defeat that lovers – and not the pair of people loving one another, but simply the one person that loves – often find themselves in. At home, it would’ve been a constant “I should’ve went to dinner there, I should have… He’s there now too, and I’m here…”orAs any writer, especially a helplessly in love one like him, Jeno's words come in waves, powerful and sincere, pulling at any reader's heart strings. He must learn, though, to also speak them, for an unsaid feeling weighs heavier than anything else.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Lee Jeno
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Thunder Smoke

It’s the feeling of being stuck that bothers Jeno the most. The very persistent feeling of hearing his thoughts louder than any other noise in the room, feeling the excitement in his stomach, making him tremble, followed by the deflating wave of disappointment.  
He’s agitated, so he reaches for his pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his vest. He has forgotten the weight and pressure of a cardboard box right against his heart, just like the women at the table don’t feel the heavy weight of the large gem earrings they’re wearing, longing their earlobes down.  
He hates this.  
Jeno retreats one tightly rolled cigarette and puts it in his mouth, pressing his lips against it with so much affection, as if the tabaco understands him, sooths him like a warm hand caressing his cheek. Even before lighting it, the heavy, somewhat earthy and minty flavour starts sticking to the inside of his mouth. Then, with a quick, precise movement, he lights a match – the matchbox isn’t his, but someone’s at the table, maybe it belongs to the sickly elegant lady on his right, or to the fat, drunken man on his left, he does not know – and that lit match he meets halfway with his cigarette, taking a light drag to make sure he’s lit it properly.  
He burns his fingers before he gets the chance to shake the black, bending stick to smoke. With a click of his tongue, he throws it in one of the ashtrays on the table.  
This isn’t – he doesn’t like being here. He’s helpless, he’s stuck, it would’ve been better if he were back at home, in his study, writing on his novel, but – ah, he hates this!  
But it wouldn’t have made a difference, whether he was at home in his study, or here at the dinner party, because his mind would’ve been in the same place either way. Stuck on the same thing. Feeling the same type of defeat that lovers – and not the pair of people loving one another, but simply the one person that loves – often find themselves in. At home, it would’ve been a constant “I should’ve went to dinner there, I should have… He’s there now too, and I’m here…”  
And here, at the tremendously sophisticated, superficial and, in his opinion, useless party, there is no relief that he’s come. Another disappointing problem arises: there’s a room full of people around a large table, yet he only wants to talk to one.  
No, he doesn’t want to talk to him – he can’t take making a fool of himself more – he wants to be talked to. And so far, he’s been through the first glass of whiskey and the appetizers, and he has been talked to by all the people that sit next to him, in front of him, three seats further away, but in his mind they don’t count. Conversations about the type of meat they think will be served or the rainy season that has just appeared do not count – nothing counts!  
He takes a drag, the first full one, and it burns his throat in a deliciously harsh type of way. This is the only physical pain he’s willing to endure, the scratching of smoke down his throat. When he blows it out, it calms him down, slows down the agitated tremor in his hands and legs and leaves a sickeningly sweet yet dull taste and smell. His tongue now feels heavier, bigger in his mouth. He smiles, but it’s not the happy kind, it’s the mindless smile that comes with an inner monologue; barely a twitch of lips as his eyes focus on a spot somewhere on the table.  
Jeno doesn’t like parties, he really doesn’t, and would much rather stay home and work on another chapter. But that’s the thing, he can’t. He hasn’t been able to since, since – recalling it, it makes him draw in a sharp breath full of smoke and he closes his eyes, half embarrassed, half mellow. He blows the smoke out and start tapping his foot against the soft carpet impatiently, fearfully.  
He’s made a fool of himself, and now he shouldn’t even be here, how is he able to show his face to him? But he couldn’t stay away, it was killing him inside to not see him again…  
This is what bothers him. This is what he hates. He’s stuck, nowhere to go – the only thing everybody is doing is sit at the table, eat, drink and talk, gossip for others – and Renjun’s there, on the other side of the table, so many seats away that even if Jeno said something to him, he wouldn’t hear. He’s chatting with someone, a handsome young man – better looking, better dressed than Jeno, so much so that it makes him feel like the man is purposefully laughing at him, or has come here just to ruin his night. This is obviously not true, but with the next throat scratching, earthy drag of smoke, Jeno fixes the random man with his eyes, squints at him and channels all his hate towards him. For no rational reason. But it’s known that Jeno is not much of a rational being, more of the feeling one.  
Did he come with Renjun? Did they meet here, did they know each other already? What are they talking about? Did Renjun already tell him about that night – ah, that stupid night! – and now they’re discussing the level of stupidity of Jeno? Or is he talking him through it right now, scene by scene, to further increase the amusement and awkwardness of the story?  
This is insane! He can’t stay like this, he’ll turn insane! But he can’t so anything either, the shame is eating at his insides like ants on a pie left out of the pantry for too long. He should give up, it’s not good that he came here, but what else could he have done? This is impossible, this is –  
It isn’t the young man he’s been squinting at that feels the pair of eyes on him – it’s Renjun. He stays impossibly still and just turns to look with the corner of his eyes right at Jeno.  
Jeno freezes.  
It stops, everything stops, but what’s funny is that it actually doesn’t. The chatter is still heard and people still laugh and clink their glasses, but his thoughts, his movements, the annoyed tap of the foot under the table, all stops. And the rest of the things in the room become the background.  
The cigarette burns in his finger, but he can’t bring himself to tap it.  
He doesn’t know which is worse, being ignored or having his presence acknowledged. They both feel terrifyingly painful in their own way.  
Why is Renjun looking at him?  
What is he thinking about?!  
Oh, God – Jeno regains his breath and in an attempt to save himself from his own burning, red cheeks he takes a drag of his cigarette and looks the complete other way.  
No, this is bad, this is worse, he should’ve stayed home!  
He starts tapping his foot again.  
Now the taste of the reoccurring short, shallow drags come into the background as well, the motion of bringing the cigarette from the ashtray to his lips becomes unconscious, not even the least soothing or calming as before.  
He should leave, excuse himself to the host with a bad stomach ache or something similar, or even better, just stand up and make a run for it, leave when no one is watching – he feels like such a fool! – but just then, the maids come through the big wooden doors with trays and trays of even more food.  
The room breaks into a humorous and drunk cheer – it was pork and beef, so no one was actually right in their predictions – but Jeno can’t bring himself to care or show a hint of a smile. A plate is placed right in front of him, pork and beef and potatoes with rosemary and he does not care, he wants to leave.  
Jeno’s eyes, for the briefest of seconds, trails up from his luxurious plate and without even noticing go back to the place where Renjun is sitting with a plate of its own.  
Their eyes meet again.  
“Can I get another glass of whiskey here?” Jeno asks all of the sudden turning the whole way round and swinging his empty glass in the air at one of the maids that was about to leave the dining room. His voice, loud and cranky, is enough to make the maid turn around and show a polite smile to let him now she’s understood.  
Jeno’s breath starts to become shallow, his heartbeat sick and fast and he starts feeling like a faint memory or being ill, with thighs clenching and unclenching involuntarily, the tremor slowly becoming a proper shake. He has a smile on his face, yes, he’s at a dinner party, he cannot be seen crimson red in the cheeks from anything other than overdrinking, but – dammit! He doesn’t even want that next drink, he wants to leave, but when he thinks about leaving, it means he’s come here and achieved nothing, he still didn’t talk to Renjun, but he can’t, he can’t, he’s so ashamed…  
“Here, too!” a voice shouts over the buzz of chatter in the room.  
Eyes wide and probably with the expression of a mad man, Jeno twists back in his seat and looks at him from across the table.  
The blooming hope dies down in his belly with the same “ha! I told you so! He doesn’t care for you, it’s just a coincidence,” that has been playing in his mind the whole night. When he looks, Renjun is back to chatting with the man, and seems to have no interest whatsoever in anything else at the moment. Jeno runs a hand through his hair nervously, his hand coming back down to rest in his lap damp and sticky, both from the sweat and the gel he’s brushed his hair back with. Now, he can feel his fringe has started to fall back on his forehead from all the twisting around in his chair and all the sweating that he’s been doing – which he only now realizes. He glues his arms around his body awkwardly when he starts feeling the sweat patches around his armpits.  
He should never come to any dinner party ever again, for he is only good in his study, writing, and in his study only! Anywhere else, he’s bound to make a fool of himself in every way that he’s capable of, and it’s right of Renjun to not have any bit of feeling towards him. Through his lashes, and pretending to be lost in the swirling of branches in the wind out of the windows in front of him, Jeno can’t help but check again for Renjun. With the playful kindness of a child, but the quiet elegance of an intellectual, he represents everything that a writer like Jeno is looking for – a muse. Something so soft and delicate but powerful at the same time that just cannot be stopped, cannot be taken out of Jeno’s mind, his poems or letters which he never sends. Renjun is just as much of an artist as Jeno is, a painter so good with his colours that every brushstroke is irreplaceable and expressive. He’s everything Jeno is not: calm, collected, soft.  
And he’s not sweating under his white shirt, like Jeno is; not even a little bit.  
A maid sweeps by him from his right and pours a sugary, gold liquid into his empty glass. Jeno sees only her hands, as he’s stuck his eyes right on the napkin under the plate in front of him. His eyes have lost focus, and he doesn’t care for the napkin, he just needs somewhere to look, somewhere else than where he wants to look.  
It eats at him inside, all this hopelessness. He’s not good with emotions, he doesn’t know what to do to stop all of this – he’s not getting any satisfaction from neither staying nor leaving.  
The food has lost its previous steam, but it doesn’t matter. He isn’t hungry, he doesn’t care for the smell of meat or the butter in which the potatoes have been cooked. He longs for another cigarette, which he does take out, but now with less hope that it will make him feel better. He just needs one. Maybe to do something with his shaky hands, maybe to just kill time and look busy. Certainly, it does give an excuse as to why he’s not eating nor talking.  
The taste of dust and rainy mud is refreshened in his mouth once he lights it up. One hand on the cigarette, the other one now around the cold glass of whiskey, he raises it from the table and goes to take a long, much needed sip.  
Renjun’s looking at him. It only takes a second, a glance and a jolt of the heart to notice it. The glass stops somewhere along the way to his lips. His breath hitches in his throat.  
Renjun gives him a smile and raises his own full glass in a motion that says “cheers!”, which Jeno unconsciously follows, then takes a sip. Jeno’s left looking dumbly at him, but he does drink as well after a few seconds. The cigarette burns to ash between his index and ring finger, leaving a trail of smoke.  
This is – what does this mean? What should he do?  
Nothing, that’s for the best. His feet are stuck on the floor, his body to the chair, he refuses to move. The same feeling of being stuck washes over him, but now mixed with confusion and an excited but terrified buzz flowing through his body, predominantly in his stomach. He takes another sip, then another drag. The combination leaves him grimacing – it tastes worse than horrible, the long, warm burn of the alcohol with the stinging pain of the smoke. It’s bound to make him sick, so he puts back the glass on the table and keeps the cigarette burning on its own in his hand.  
It passes through his mind that if this were a scene in one of his novels, the situation would go anything but pleasurable. Which goes to say, his main characters – himself, but reinterpreted every time – never had the happy ending. Never had the conversation with a lover they longed for, never had the closure or even the beginning they thought they would have; they always had the opposite. Humiliation in front of a well-respected figure, harsh words from an unrequired love, a sudden, wordless breakup.  
So he’s not expecting too much from tonight, he’s not expecting anything, but he can dream, he can hope. He’s stuck like an ant on honey. Nowhere to go. Every option he has is not preferable. He wishes…  
Renjun stands up with a loud scrape of the wooden chair against the floor, bringing his action to the attention of a few guests, including Jeno, and after he excuses himself to the young man and the other guest that he had been talking to, he wipes his mouth with a napkin and – oh, oh, did he signal something to Jeno?  
He disappears through the door too quickly, but did he lock eyes with Jeno once more and tilt his head towards the exit?  
Did he just imagine it?  
Jeno stares, wide-eyed, at the closed doors which Renjun has just passed through without looking back. Then, he looks at the empty seat, the plate in front of it, cutlery left on it, mostly empty – there’s only the rosemary left from the potatoes on the plate, as if he took the time to pick it out and put it in a pile as far away from the rest of the food.  
Jeno scrapes his chair away from the table again, then just sits there and starts tapping his foot nervously again. The new awkward distance between him and the table makes it almost impossible to reach the ashtray, so he contemplates for a few seconds, minutes, very troubled.  
Was that sign for him?  
Was it just a natural tilt of the head, a coincidence, is Jeno about to find himself in another shameful situation? Is he not tired of making a fool of himself, every time? Shouldn’t he be more ashamed to come near Renjun again, after…  
He throws what’s left of his burning cigarette, hoping he’ll go for the ashtray. Instead, it falls right in his drunken seat mate’s drink, splashing and putting it off immediately. It’s then when he makes the very sudden decision to stand up and leave.  
He’s already feeling stuck, he might as well just leave and maybe he’ll unstuck himself. And he does not want to have to deal with the drunk man’s realization of his contaminated drink, so he makes a beeline for the door after snatching the match box off the table.  
On his way, passing behind so many chairs and backs of dresses and braids and beads and jackets, he takes multiple deep, deep breaths. They all feel useless, like nothing can do any good to his body, which now feels both light and heavy. Nothing feels normal; his heartbeat is spread all over his chest, he feels his ears pulsating, and his stomach feels somewhere up in his throat, flipped upside down, while his feet are light and almost jumpy, taking him towards the door like he’s walking on a cloud, or in a dream.  
Yes, this all feels like a dream, but he can’t make up his mind about how he feels about this dream, if it really is one.  
Jeno stops in front of the door – no one’s noticed he’s left, and no one cares – and straightens his back, straightens his vest, his shirt, then pushes the knob. He tries to comfort himself by thinking that if this all is a big misunderstanding and he’ll prove himself pathetic once again, he can at least use this in his novel, it’d make for a good start of a character’s depression.  
He pushes the knob, exits the lively, yellowy dining room and enters the terrace.  
His breath hitches, once more.  
Renjun’s leaning on the railings, looking out at the gardens, back turned to him.  
He’s so beautiful…  
Jeno closes the door behind him, which makes Renjun twist his neck and look at him. To fake detachment and coolness, Jeno pretends to mindlessly search for his cigarettes and pulls them out of his pocket, ignoring Renjun’s presence. He really needs the support of a smoke right now, needs something to do with his hands.  
“Hm. Mister Lee!” greets Renjun cheerfully with a smile, which should’ve been expected, given his lively nature. He keeps his arms on the railings and follows Jeno with his eyes until he’s sitting somewhere besides him, but two meters away. “What brings you here?”  
“Well, my eyes probably played tricks on me and gave me an unnecessary glimmer of hope”, Jeno wants to say, but he doesn’t. Not that much because it’s a ridiculous thing to say outloud, but because his mouth has turned dry and he’s so afraid to talk. He cannot find any words.  
It’s considerably colder and somewhat windy outside. He was not prepared for the sudden change of weather, even if he has looked out the window for a few good minutes when he was inside.  
“Some fresh air,” he decides to say, but, God! His voice comes out so small, so unnatural and strained, like it’s the voice of a stranger, not his own, and he speaks the word with little conviction in himself. “I needed some fresh air…”  
He trails off his sentence but makes it seem like he’s about to add something else, which he is not. Instead, he opens the box of cigarettes, struggling to hold the match box in the other hand.  
“Ah, yes, the air is good right now, Mister Lee,” Renjun says, just as cheerful and unaffected, still looking into the distance at the gardens which, if the sky wasn’t grey and the sun ready to set, would’ve been a proper pleasure to look at. “Cold and sharp, good for your lungs.”  
“Yes…”  
“Unlike that tabaco of yours,” Renjun adds.  
Jeno slowly puts back the cigarette in its box and, with an embarrassed cough, places the two boxes in his vest pocket, leaving his hands empty and awkwardly swinging between the rails and around his body, then his pockets. Nothing feels right, nothing feels…  
“Did you like the – the rosemary potatoes?” Jeno finds himself asking, and he gets the feeling that his words spoken outloud surprise the both of them. He couldn’t have thought of something less intelligent to say.  
Renjun makes a surprised face that says “what?”, then he turns his neck to look at him and, while keeping casual eye contact, to which Jeno sadly does not react very casual, he says with a tilt of a head, pondering:  
“The rosemary potatoes? Well, the taste was overbearing. It’s ridiculous how much they’ve used for just a few potatoes!” He pauses to let out a little laugh, perhaps the chosen subject amuses him but he goes along with it. “Did you like them?”  
“Yes,” Jeno lies, then thinks that he should’ve said no, to be on the same page as Renjun. He clicks his tongue inaudibly. He usually likes rosemary potatoes.  
“But you didn’t touch your food, though,” Renjun states.  
Jeno gulps and, with a very embarrassed smile, fixes one flower bush somewhere in the distance. At a loss of words to take himself out of the not serious but uncomfortable position he’s put himself in, he pretends to be invested in the scenery.  
He feels, with the corner of his eyes, how Renjun turns his head from him to what’s in front of him as well.  
The wind is not pleasant for someone who has wet armpits and a damp shirt sticking to its skin. Jeno silently exhales deeply.  
The grey sky, the branches swinging with such force that leaves fly out in a swirl and the faint, background noise of the chatter and music coming from inside makes the scenery feel weird, strangely nerve-wracking. More than it should be.  
Jeno feels himself starting to sweat again.  
“I wasn’t very hungry,” he ends up whispering, too long after the subject was firstly brought up to make it seem natural. The long exhale he takes this time is shaky.  
Renjun turns his head again to look at him. Expecting an amused furrow of brows, or even a mocking one, Jeno is surprised to see the contemplative look on the other’s face.  
“Hm. I really was. I didn’t get the chance to eat today at the studio,” he says, somewhat casually, like talking to a regular friend. Which, truth be told, Jeno used to be – or, at least a close acquaintance – until, well, that night – dammit!  
Jeno nods dumbly.  
“The food is really the only reason why I accepted the invitation, if I’m being honest,” Renjun continues.  
Something inside of Jeno twists and turns, leaving the hint of a grimace on his face for half a second. He can’t explain to himself why he would be bothered by such a simple statement like this, which bothers him even more. He realizes he’s thinking and acting like a child, and it puts him in a frustratingly down mood. In his case, he only came to see him. Which he now is, but this feels… why does it feel so normal, like nothing is out of the ordinary? Just a regular conversation…  
Did Renjul forget? There’s no way he could have forgotten something like that, something so… Dammit! Jeno keeps reliving it, and with each time the scene plays in his head, he squirms and feels himself becoming smaller and smaller.  
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Renjun says.  
Jeno, having realised he’s spoken too little so far, tries to long out his answer this time.  
“Yes, I… I decided to come… I don’t really like parties, but…” he pauses to exhale deeply through his nose, “But then I decided to come.”  
“Why is that?”  
“I… couldn’t really focus on writing tonight,” he answers, which is not completely a lie, just a truth that has a lot of missing parts. He imagines himself telling Renjun, right now, that he only came to see him, to get the chance to do God knows what, because he didn’t think things through, and now he’s overwhelmed. But he just wanted a chance to see him again, he wanted to see him…  
“Ah!” Renjun exclaims shortly, as if reminded by something. “Speaking of your writings, how’s that poem you told me about?”  
Jeno furrows his brows a bit, thinking. “What poem?”  
“The one with the citrus, do you remember… The one that matches with my still life oil painting.”  
Jeno’s eyebrows furrow deeper, a bit alert this time. That poem is about him, about Renjun, and while there’s no way he could’ve figured out the meaning of it, the fact that it’s being mentioned makes Jeno wary. It’s one of his very few happy and light poems, it’s about excitement and warmth and falling in love, it’s…  
“When did I tell you about that?” Jeno asks.  
“That night in your study,” comes the answer.  
Jeno’s long, deep exhale comes to an abrupt stop, hitching in his throat audibly. His sweat turns colder than before, his feet lighten so much they feel like they’ll give out right here. A gush of wind amplifies his buzzing anxieties. When he looks at him, Renjun’s face can be described as neutral; eyebrows slightly raised, lips pouted just the tiniest amount, natural and comfortable posture, nothing stiff, nothing on the edge.  
So he does remember…  
Jeno looks at him with anything but a composed figure. He’s once again aware of his own hair falling wildly down into his eyes, the obviously fast rise and fall of his chest, the sharpness of his gaze…  
“Come take a walk with me,” Renjun says calmly.


End file.
